Stargate (38 page)

“Ah, Chilka! To hear your voice again in this house, and to see you sitting by the window and smiling at me. We have not lost many in this valley because we are so far into the mountains, but the other villages have been raided twice a year. Not always successfully. The two-minds cannot always reach the safety of the lowlands before nightfall, and our men often see to it that they do not. Nenan has done his share. He went with Sadal three months ago and caught a party of them at sunset. There was a rock fall blocking the way to the plain, so the two-minds had to dig. Nenan said that as soon as the sun went, the madness came on them, and they stood on the edge of the cliff, holding out their arms and wailing. Sadal and his men pushed them all over.”

Danarion was absorbed in thought. It had taken five days to come here by way of the foothills and lakes, but as he sought further in Chilka's mind he found an alternative route. It was a path leading directly down the other side of the mountain to the plain, two days and a night of hard walking from the village, but once on the plain, the city was only a three-hour ride away. Excitement stirred in him, for this time there was something familiar about the scene passing swiftly from Chilka to him. But with it came the fear of great plunging heights and hawks and eagles. Lallin turned away again, and Danarion spoke no more.

When the food was ready, she placed it before him on a small table and, unhooking a large wooden cup from the mantel, went out, leaving the door open. Sunlight streamed into the room in a great shaft. Danarion saw her walk to the river, hitch up her skirt with one hand, and bend to fill the cup. There was a man sitting on the bank, his back to the water, his eyes fixed on the cottage, and Lallin's high, excited voice came floating to Danarion. The man nodded once or twice, but if he spoke to her, Danarion did not hear. It was Candar, grim and suspicious still, keeping a guard over him. Lallin came back, placing the brimming cup beside the stew and sitting opposite him. Danarion lifted the cup, hesitated, and then dipped in his fingers and sprinkled droplets of water on the floor. “For Sholia, wherever she may be,” he said before he drank.

Lallin went white. “You have never done that before,” she said softly. “It is a tale, a fable to quiet children and soothe the dreams of old men, or so you always told me. What has happened to you?”

Danarion shrugged and smiled at her, picking up the spoon. “Perhaps I have become superstitious after all,” he replied. “Perhaps I am just taking no chances. It is as though I have come back from the dead, Lallin.”

“The longer I listen to you, the more I am aware of changes in you,” she said again, her face still pale. “The words you choose, the way you say them, gentler, less sharply. Six years have given me back a different man.” She was trying to smile, but Danarion sensed the uncertainty beneath. He touched her hand and went back to his meal.

He did not stir from the chair all the long afternoon. People came knocking at the door to welcome him home, their voices hesitant, their hands cold in his, and Danarion quickly realized that the story of his seeming resurrection had been spreading. He knew that he could not stay, that soon he must slip away and find the city, go down that impossible path that snaked like a black thread of terror through Chilka's memory, but the lassitude of the body had seeped into him, and he was content to sit by the window, acknowledging the greetings of Chilka's fellows. Sadal came, bringing none of the doubt that had circled the others, and sat before him, knee to knee.

“We can take up where we left off now, Chilka.” He smiled. “I have not forgotten the plans we used to make. Establish better communication with our fellows scattered over Shol, build an army, and eventually wipe out every two-mind in the world. They say that Ishban once belonged to us. Well, we'll take it back, now that you've come home.”

“Ishban never belonged to you,” Danarion said quietly, absently. “It was Shaban, the city under the sea, that was inhabited by one-minds.”

Sadal blinked and was very still, and Danarion suddenly realized what he had said. Lallin was hovering behind him, and he saw Sadal glance at her in puzzlement. “You are no believer in legend, Chilka, and neither am I,” Sadal said kindly, and Danarion understood that Sadal had decided to humor a wounded and weary man. “If Shaban ever existed, it cannot be proved, unless we find a way to breathe under the water. Chilka, don't tell me that you have been infected by them in the years of your captivity!” he finished in a burst of irritation.

Danarion, with great effort, lifted a hand and smiled. “No, Sadal. I'm sorry. It is just that the two-minds believe so strongly and fearfully in the old city's existence, almost as though they think that one day it may rise from the ocean and somehow destroy them all, that it is difficult for any man to withstand such foolishness day after day.”

“Well, it has nothing to do with us,” Sadal grumbled, mollified. “You're back. I give us five years to defeat them now, eh, Lallin?” But she was staring at Chilka and had not heard him. Sadal went home cheerfully some time later after planning a campaign to defeat the Lady and occupy the city, and Lallin took the chair he had left.

“Chilka,” she said hoarsely, “what did you mean when you spoke to Sadal as though he and you were not one? There is something here I do not understand.” But she got no further, for the door was flung open, bringing a gust of cold night air into the house, and with a start Danarion realized that the sun had long since set. A young man came bounding across the floor, and Danarion barely had time to rise before he was crushed.

“Father!” the young man shouted. “I ran right through the village when they told me! Oh, welcome, welcome!”

So this was Nenan. Danarion freed himself, fighting against the webs of caring and belonging that were beginning to form around him in this place, and took the eager face between his palms. Chilka showed him a gangling stripling of twelve, all dark eyes, but he found himself looking at a broad-shouldered, lithe man of eighteen.

“Nenan, my son,” he said, and a curious thrill went through him. “Six years do not change a man much, but they turn boys into men. You are as tall as I now.”

Nenan twisted away but held to Chilka's arm in a gesture of delighted disbelief. “You got away! I always knew you would. Ishban won't hold my father for long, I used to tell myself when the nights were long and cold on the slopes and the game wouldn't show. I've looked after Mother as well as I could.”

“She's told me.” Danarion found that the lump in Chilka's throat had been formed by his own strange emotion. “You have done very well.”

Nenan released him. “Mother, there are two rabbits outside, and I'm hungry.” He grinned at his father. “Oh, so hungry! I'll have some of that stew. Are they hunting you, Father? Do you want to talk, or will it hurt you for a while?”

So he had not heard of the killing. Danarion lowered himself opposite his son and suddenly felt his responsibility for these two mortals, their unearned love, their happy trust rise up to condemn him. What have I to do with them? he tried to tell himself. I am not concerned with the strife of mortals. I am here to secure the Gate, wait for a Messenger, and go home to Danar. He saw his house there, ringed by grass and fragrant blue haeli trees, but the vision was lifeless. Around him Lallin's large candles flickered, and the smell of the stew was in his nostrils, and Nenan was shaking his head in wonderment and smiling still. Danarion knew real fear then, the fear of dislocation, of irrevocable commitment and change. “I think that tonight I want only peace,” he said slowly.

Nenan nodded agreeably.

“Then I'll sleep at Sadal's place. Mother will want you to herself.”

“Is Candar still outside?” Danarion asked.

“Yes, he is. Your return must have given him a shock. He could hardly speak to me as I passed him.” Nenan finished the food and stood. “I'll go now,” he said, embracing Chilka again, “but I'll be back early in the morning.” He went out whistling, and Lallin began to clear the table. He watched her deft fingers, her economical movements. She did not look at him. When she had finished, she paused, then came to him and, putting her hands against his neck, kissed him on the mouth.

Danarion's whole essence cringed. Avenues of intimacy and possession that Chilka's mind had not shown him before opened under him like a gulf of hot darkness. He was horrified and repulsed, yet under Lallin's soft lips the body of Chilka responded, and Danarion found he could not forbid it. Presently she drew away, pulling him to his feet, and kissed him again, her arms around him, her own body tight against him. Then she abruptly pushed him away, and her hand found her mouth.

“The moment I heard you speak, I knew you had changed,” she said dully. “Every word and movement spoke to me of six years acting on you like some spell that had twisted you into someone I no longer know. To kiss you is like kissing a stranger. Is there a woman in Ishban, Chilka my husband, who looks for you in vain tonight?” She was struggling to hide the hurt, but to Danarion it was evident.
“
I will understand,” she said more loudly. “I cannot expect your continence for six long years. You are home, and that is all I must see.”

It was fully dark now. The window no longer gave out onto fields and the blunt peaks of the mountains, but had become a mirror. Danarion, glancing at it, saw her reflection distorted and pale, a long, grotesque face, a misshapen body. Candlelight flickered around the image, and it seemed to him that she was burning with this doubt, this jealousy against which she fought. He turned back to her deliberately, took her hands, and forced her gently into the chair.

“Lallin,” he said quietly, “I must tell you the truth. Candar suspects that I am a two-mind come to spy on you all, and he is right in a way, but to you I owe the whole truth, because you loved Chilka, and he would have died for you—indeed, in a way he did.” Her expression did not change, but a stillness came over her, an inward stiffening against more hurt. He dropped her hands. “I am not Chilka,” he went on heavily. “I use his mouth, his eyes, I dip into his memories so that I may know where to go, what to expect, but the thing you love, your husband's flame, his essence, is gone.”

She smiled wryly, and her face fell once more into lines of tense control. “What you are trying to tell me, Chilka, is that I no longer have your heart, that it has gone to some Ishban woman who has cared for you. Is she another slave, a two-mind, perhaps a friend of Yarne?”

“No!” He did not want to see her like this, encased in brittle calmness. “If Chilka had found another love in the city, it would be here”—he tapped the black, untidy head—“in his memories, his brain, his mind's echo. He loved only you. He was running to you when he died. He escaped twice before, and it was only for you. The soldiers rode after him and caught up with him by one of the lakes and shot him dead with an arrow. Ask Candar or Sadal if this is true.”

“Obviously it is not,” she retorted, still calm, “or you would not be standing there telling me nonsense. Your captivity has turned your brain, Chilka.” Suddenly her face softened. “Oh, my love,” she said gently. “It is not important. You cannot be hurt anymore.”

For answer he lifted his shirt, and the scar was red and raised against the brown skin. “This is where the arrow entered,” he said. “It pierced Chilka's stomach and nicked his heart.”

For the first time she showed alarm. She put one finger on the scar. “This is new,” she admitted, “but so is the graze on your shoulder.” She lifted his arm, and her fingers found another scar by his armpit, smooth, old, and painless now. “You are Chilka,” she said definitely. “I will have to teach you that you are.”

“Lallin, a moment ago you were suspicious of me. Can the truth be so preposterous that you cannot understand it? I am not Chilka, I am not a Sholan. I am an immortal, a god if you like. I fell from the sky into Chilka's body and must use it for a while. Your husband is dead.”

She stood. “Slavery does strange things to a man,” she said slowly. “A woman may shrug and accept it, but a man's dignity, particularly yours, demands immediate escape. Inwards, if it cannot be over the real wall. Your escape has been inwards, to the legends. Chilka, you have gone mad.” Her mouth trembled, and she came to him and put her arms around him again, laying her head against his chest. “It doesn't matter. I don't care. One day you will recover.”

Danarion allowed his arms to respond, but despair filled him. She would believe nothing he might tell her. It was all too farfetched. He thought for a long while of Shol in the days of security, when multitudes poured through the Gate to and from Shon or Sumel, when he and the other sun-lords had mingled with them openly and gladly and the Worldmaker himself had trailed his feet in the ocean. How long ago? he wondered. Ten thousand Shol-years? A hundred thousand? I must go. I cannot stay here. His haste was rooted in fear of Lallin herself and Chilka's unbreakable ties to her.

He set her away carefully and, taking her face in both hands, he drew from himself what power he could. “Lallin,” he whispered, “I want you to rest now. Go to sleep. I will give you a dream of my world, of Danar, and when you wake, you will not fret that I have gone. I will come back if I can, I swear it. I do not blame you for your disbelief.” Her eyes widened, and she would have spoken, but he willed her mind to blur with a need for sleep.

“Lie me down, Chilka,” she murmured. “I'm so tired. We can talk in the morning.”

He caught her as she fell, laid her on the bed, and covered her. He blew out the candles and let himself out without a sound.

Candar had gone. The riverbank lay peaceful and deserted, and the water chattered as it flowed swiftly with starlight caught in its froth. Danarion crept along by the cottages, and soon the village was behind him and he was wading once more through some tall crop that swished against his thighs. As he went he forced Chilka's mind to yield to him the way down the other side of the mountain, the precipitous route the two-minds took when they came slaving, but only portions of the path were locked in the mortal's brain. The blanks were full of darkness and fear. Down through the valley, the forest, a short drop to where a waterfall gushed out, then rock and a looming shape on the right that was, Danarion surmised because of Chilka's terror, the backside of the Mountain of Mourning. Here the memories ceased to flow, and only trickled through again when the plain was reached and the pinnacles of Ishban shivered on the horizon.